


Not One For Dancing

by Saercura



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (Not from Thorin), Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Early signs of goldsickness, First Kiss, First Time, Gen, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Pre-Fall of Erebor, Rough Sex, Rutting, Sometimes sparring can be so intimate, Soulmates, Switching, Times? >:3c, Winter Solstice, Yuletide balls, handjobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28212843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saercura/pseuds/Saercura
Summary: Yuletide celebrations commenced in Erebor and with it its usual means of seasonal merriment. However, for a particularly disgruntled heir apparent, all was not as it seemed - especially when it came to his shieldbrother.
Relationships: Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8
Collections: Have A Happy Hobbit Holiday 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BreezeBubble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreezeBubble/gifts).



Durin’s Day came and went, and at autumn's last light the King and his eldest heirs settled before the hearth, several cups deep.

What once was a habit had become sparse in the intervening months, for the recent loss of the Queen struck no one deeper than Thrór who shared his grief with none. The heir apparent and his son retained the ritual, to which their own silence on the matter lay palpable, if for the mere chance to offer company to their patriarch and King. Such was a night when they believed themselves alone granted the absence of Thrór at the evening’s earlier gala, and thus both rose from their seats to the sound of a familiar gait.

“Happy Durin’s Day, Melhekhul,” Thorin offered with a small smile, to which his father echoed as he began pouring a third chalice.

“Settle, settle,” Thrór hummed quietly, his rings reflecting the heart of roaring fire as he approached. “Today, was it? I suppose that grants credence to the noise I heard echoing through my halls.” Neither Thráin nor Thorin spoke upon the fact that they’d both urged him to attendance but offered one another a brief glance before the youngest stepped forth to remove Thrór’s pelt. Glacial eyes tracked Thorin as he approached. “Tell me what I’ve missed.”

And that is how the three spent the remainder of the night; Thráin regaled the arrival of Náin and his eldest son, who in true Ironfoot fashion made a spectacle of coming with a mount of twenty warboars and a pageantry of gifts. A feast commenced and with it ample time for sparring and jest. Thanks were given, toasts were made, and a call for remembrance was in order. While Thráin had offered it as a passing comment the King hummed into the rim of his drink and demanded to know of the safety of the main token of entry.

Thorin had thus interjected that several of the great beasts had been tethered to tow the mountainstar, a great luminescent crystal cluster that was passed between the different houses of Durin’s folk every other decade. What was once an amalgam of fractals had thus been dispersed between both Erebor and the Ironhills, engineered by mastered hands to become a famed chandelier. None beyond the great halls of either clan knew of it, and for a decade more it would make its home in Erebor.

“With no pryin’ eye of the woodland sprite,” Thrór mused with a triumphant expression, his thumb coaxing over the bands of his rings. He lifted the one about his pinky to his lips, gracing his mouth absently over the large ruby before he peered to his heirs. Neither of them had spoken upon the broken alliance in public, rarely in private, for they remained certain that in time it would mend. If Thranduil desired the gems as ardently as he implored – well enough to break ties with Erebor – a compromise would eventually reign. Either Thrór would get his price… Or settle with the one agreed upon commission. Regardless, the King was far too preoccupied in his own musings to have paid any mind to their tenuous silence. “The envy of Elves is light in any form, and no doubt that wisp of a barter-snipe would much prefer to celebrate it in his home than lounge about the treetops.”

"It most certainly provides far better a compliment than a promenade beneath the stars, my King," Thorin nodded briefly when the silence had strained too long, which elicited a snicker from his grandfather.

“Elves, my dear lad, offer too much credence to the skies.” Thrór raised a goblet in bemusement, his expression wry. “Aye, perhaps had they wings or wares with which to interact with what they find most precious they would cease in their derision. Beauty and permanence - we both find it in our own means. Stars are… ineffable, eternal. Distant sentinels who keep watch over Arda and offer their ancient wisdoms to the weary and navigation to those adrift, regardless if the advice is either warranted or desired. Beautiful, untouchable things, the stars - Elves emulate themselves in kind but forget their blood is not ichor and their ethereal thrall can end at the end of a blade just the same as we. Yet it is we who are condemned to covetousness, to greed of all things, for what? Do they assume themselves superior, simply because they are cursed to yearning? Aye, and they do. And Men are foolish enough to listen to them."

Thráin grunted. “Still, to deny the King’a Mirkwood his own jewels-”

“He wished to make a fool of me before my own kin, within my own kingdom, _nidoy_ ,” Thrór said with a sudden severity that cut the lofty dissonance within the room, the shadow claiming the vibrancy of his mien like a being possessed. “When you are King you may very well kowtow to the likes of the Elvenking and make merry with treeshaggers all you will. But so long as I remain upon my throne, my reign graced beneath the helm of the Arkenstone, you will see no compromise between Erebor and the Woodland realm until that nymph gives to us what we are owed.” The turn of his demeanor was harshened with the sudden slamming of his empty goblet and were they weaker khuz they may have stilled or froze at his seething outburst. But they knew better than to argue, for such lapses in composure were increasingly commonplace in those days. Grief, they were certain, tainted the lighter moments of their time with their patriarch rather than the warnings gifted from a former ally. At the very least, that was all they would have been professed aloud.

“Forgive me, my King,” Thorin’s father said, though Thrór’s temperament had not seen the last of its strife to his eldest born.

“Leave us. I wish to speak with your son, in private,” the King grunted, his tone deadened and flat as he refused to look upon his own. Thráin glanced to Thorin who looked back at him with an imploring look, though they both knew better than to test Thrór while he dwelled in such a mood. The heir apparent’s rings clicked dully as his palms laid flat while he rose to his feet, his shoulders sagged in defeat.

“Thorin,” his father nodded brusquely in his departure, to which Thorin reciprocated. He inclined his head towards the head of the table. “Father.”

Thrór offered no recognition of his heir’s leave, nor had Thráin expected one. Thorin’s eyes watched his father’s retreating back with a feeling of dread, for though his shoulders lay heavy with the burden of his King’s dismissal his broad hands were fisted with a building frustration - one he refused to speak with anyone beside his wife. Once the doors were closed, he barked at the sentinel at the door to follow suit; with a broad arm braced across his chest the dwarrow left, leaving the two alone.

Silence followed then, stretching until it became oppressive.

“Ghivashith,” Thrór murmured at last, his tone distant as he watched his deft fingers trace around the mouth of his goblet. “Nûrayad, I am certain you believe me to be unfair in my treatment just now, but one day you shall sit precisely where I shall and realize that what I do, what you will do… It is out of preservation, rather than cruelty, that a father must speak to his son as such when he speaks out of turn.”

Thorin remained silent, which caused Thrór’s eyes to fall upon him. His expression must have given away the reason behind his silence, though instead of derision the King’s stare seemed to look through him. “Aye, preservation. Of honor, of order. Of truth. The young… Oh, the young always assume that they see with eyes fresher than one’s older than their own, as if senility takes root the moment one’s beard turns grey.” He chuckled to himself, clumsily pawing for his empty goblet and drank from it as if it were overflowing. This, of anything else, urged Thorin to speak.

“He only wishes to do right by Erebor, ugmil’adad. And by you.”

“He does not realize he wishes to make merry with a conman and a liar, a thief who wishes to terry off of our labors, our wealth, our craftsmanship for pity-”

“Pity-”

“Yes, pity. As if we are now supposed to be likened in spirit now that my One is… Now that she has...” Thrór’s pitched emotions leveled once more and if there was anything worse than his grandfather’s rage it was his hollowed grief. Thorin’s own mourning on the matter of his grandmother’s recent passing was one he’d yet to put to rest within himself, and with his King’s worsened state… His thoughts lingered to Dwalin despite himself, how the mere thought of having to see him buried would taper what will he had to carry on, how deafened and volatile he might become in his own severance. That, he had mused, had been with his One to whom he’d yet to profess. Certainly Thrór was difficult but who wouldn’t be after the conclusion of two centuries of marriage? To lose the very half of one's self crafted by Mahal?

He crossed to kneel before his grandfather, taking his hand from the goblet to reaffix him to the present. There was a moment of resistance though Thorin, whose lack of patience was well known, made an exception. He had always known Thrór to be a noble and just ruler, an even more gracious protector of kin. In moments of weakness, he reasoned, he would have to offer him the same - this was the same dwarf who'd been the first to greet him to the world beyond the Mountain, for when he'd learned of Thorin's interest in stars he could not feign a firebug's imitation to be in fair contest. Duty and honor to one's people, an iron will, a deadly adversary in combat…

"I miss her too."

Thrór's attention finally seemed to settle upon him and cracks in his mask began to chip away beneath the stony cynicism of his demeanor, the terse lines softening at the corner of his eyes as a sigh creaked passed his lips. While they were in no danger of spilling over the wetness shimmered his winter stare and a brief smile graced the King's lips. He leant forward to tip his forehead against his eldest grandson's, offering a moment's reprieve before he sat up once more.

"You are Erebor's future, Thorin," he murmured, resolute. “My only wish for you is to find happiness as I had… That through it the line of Durin remains secure, that our people, our home, our wealth…” He trailed then, though he shook off the vestiges of his stupor as he sat back. When he composed himself, he did so with his shoulders squared and his chin raised, his head cocked in thought. Though he did not look at Thorin he pet the hand upon his own with a mild expression, the severity draining from his demeanor to be replaced with an open epiphany.

“Go. I have something to attend to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melhekhul - My King  
> Nidoy - Boy  
> Ghivashith - Treasure that is young  
> Nûrayad - Second Heir  
> Ugmil’adad - Grandfather


	2. Sparring

Thorin would remark in earnest decades later that he hadn’t been actively avoiding Dwalin, though the latter would contend to the contrary.

The winter solstice brought with it the beginning of the Yule, which in and of itself incurred constant attention and delay. With the notable absence of the King most of the arrangements then fell on his heirs and prior precedence, which was always to herald a progressively more luxuriant affair than the last. However even with the King being ghostly during the preparation work it did not mean he was absent from input. This included a series of dance lessons, endless tailoring appointments, and mandatory sessions of instrumental practices added atop a mounting pile of static duties that kept him busy from dawn til the mooncrest. With most of Dwalin’s posts being that of the night watch it offered fewer moments to be seen with him and lesser to share in easy camaraderie absent from prying ears. Absence from him only mounted his building frustration, to which Dís unknowingly assuaged with prose and pretense that led him down to the sparring rink and left him just as quickly.

Dwalin, even amongst the khuz, was an imposing juxtaposition to his brother, who shorter than most graced the world with a curious disposition and a diplomatic smile. Where Balin chose congeniality and conversation Dwalin found himself to be far more persuasive in silence, the plume of his mohawk merely adding to his height which lingered close to that of a short Man. Once a companion had made the ill-made chide of his mother gate-hopping to Dale, and by the end of it was offering gifts of retribution at Fundin’s feet for the slight.

Thorin, however, had long since seen past the facade of brutishness alone and relished in the loyalty only battle and time could forge. They’d been rivals as pebbles but quickly found a kinship in mutual betterment, their humors alike which eased over any tension laid previously in their competitiveness. While Dwalin offered him the honors of his title in public he was not afraid to voice himself in private, caring little for the propriety of his station and always holding true to his convictions. It was in this open sincerity that Thorin had first found the fluttering of his heart to be beyond the normal bonds of friendship, and in the years following they had grown so close they could speak volumes to one another from across the way with a mute glance. Together they’d learned to assess the other’s needs as well as their respective boundaries – though most importantly, when it was or wasn’t appropriate to test them.

It was only with the fevered haze of a pleasured disorientation that he woke one night with the evidence of just how far he desired Dwalin to be tested.

He was thankful, however, that his discovery did little to undermine the genuineness between them. Conversation and jest remained unbidden and he’d yet to have made a fool of himself in conversation; Dwalin was none the wiser to his longing and granted his gift of bluntness he doubted silence on this matter would have persisted were it there at all. It happened in rarity, or so the portends declared, that individuals would have Ones that did not reciprocate, devoted to craft or duty beyond all else. Loyalty to the crown was second to his loyalty to Thorin, who would one day sit upon the famed parapet of Erebor – if it were devotion to anything, it was a devotion to his King and kingdom. Older than both his father and grandfather when they wed, and his love unrequited, he too would be duty bound.

However, Dwalin had always made that an impossible task, the handsome bastard he was.

Dwalin stood forth with a twin set of battle hammers, freshly forged with the tapered ends blunted. The Durin's crest emblazoned the flattened edge while the cheeks of the weapons were forked with the isometric wingspan of the ravens, pristine and unmarred by use. Ceremonial as they were it did not belie a weakness in the objects themselves, for their heft and range were of impeccable quality and balance known to dwarvish make, now hallmarked in its Ereborian design. Dragging the hilts it sparked against the rougher stone beyond the flat surface of the battle circle, and Dwalin smirked in flamboyant prowess as he mastered their turn, displaying a fair dexterity of his hand and the strength possessed within it.

“Shamukh!” His smirk was evident upon his grizzled features, a toying expression to the official start of a match. He crossed to the center of the arena where Thorin lingered, and the heir apparent quirked a brow as he was handed a respective weapon. In jest the younger Fundinul bowed with hyperbolized courtesy, gesticulating with a flourished flick of his wrist as he muttered, “Emulhekh.”

Thorin scoffed, rolling his eyes as he affixed his grip. “Well, it’s a fine day to see that you’ve finally taken to addressing me properly,” he said wryly, which earned a chuffed snort from the taller dwarrow as they maneuvered into battle position. Dwalin grinned, cocking his head as he rolled his shoulders and widened his stance.

“Aye, ought to do it now before I slip up and call you something truly deserving before your kin and court, princeling,” he reposed with a flash of teeth, and before Thorin could ruminate on how dry his throat had become at the sight of such a break of his facade the combat had begun.

Dwalin, as the challenger, had the first strike; with a cry of exuberance he charged with a mighty swing and the momentum of the bulk carried through with seamless efficiency. Thorin parried by taking the shaft in both hands and split them to distribute the weight of his assault along the grip between his fists. He felt the reverberations pulse down his arms and to his shoulders like a thunderstrike upon Erebor’s peak, his grin wide and pleased. They’d long since abandoned the pretense of station when it came to sparring, for an enemy would not take kindly to him simply because Thorin was in the line of succession - if anything, they’d converge upon him more vehemently. As his shieldbrother, trust was equally earned in loyalty, strategy, and strength.

If the affairs of the heart had anything to do with his judgement, Thorin would not pay heed to it.

With a shout and a test of his brawn Thorin heaved the other back, pursuing Dwalin as he collected himself to cast his own strike. It was batted away with a back-armed hit that drug their hammers against the smooth stone, the sound of metal grinding against stone echoing as it offered them both a moment of composure. Thorin bared his teeth as he leveled a hailing blow, and though Dwalin was an imposing figure he, too, was a warrior with reflexes to boot. Narrowly dodging him the head of the hammer crashed into the rock beside his foot, all but churning it as it incurred the full bludgeoning force of the prince’s labor. His pale gaze flickered to match with Dwalin’s, the thrill of combat alight in their eyes as they parted.

With a broad sweep Dwalin reared back to strike Thorin head on, though with a quick drop to his knees and a flattening to his back the dwarf narrowly missed the weapon promised to him. Taking advantage of the momentum’s follow through Thorin turned and skidded back, raising his weapon just as Dwalin readjusted the pitch of his swing to launch straight down and overhead of him. With a test of fortitude and strength they struggled, though when he felt his shoulder begin to buckle as the dwarrow overhead heaved most of his weight straight down he shunted the other’s advance to his right. When Dwalin deflected and recovered it offered enough time for the Prince to pitch off of his dominant leg to garner space between them. He slid back a small ways and staggered to his feet just as Dwalin grunted, raising to his full height once more as he affixed his hold.

“Fancy footwork there, Prince. Dinnae suppose you’ve been listenin’ to that dance instructor’a yours,” Dwalin jibed, earning a half-snarled growl in reply as the Prince bared his teeth. They stalked around one another, extending an occasional raise to see if the other would flinch. What came next was one of strategy; while the other dwarrow was stronger than himself Thorin remained quicker. However with the current armaments upon his body, stealth in this situation would have been null.

“Been asking about me, have you? What, felt a bit neglected amidst all of these preparations?” Thorin goaded the other, and while he expected no forthright answer it was one that nagged at him - one that he refused to breathe life into. Did you miss me?

"Been wantin' to see what could possibly be more important than makin’ your sparrin’ practices,” Dwalin challenged. “Just a few days out ‘n you’re already losin’ your fire. Now fight me, or would you rather I waltz-“

It was with a viporous strike that Thorin lunged forth and clipped Dwalin’s breastplate, snickering as he decried, “Your hubris will be your end, bâheluh. Now, let us be done with these games, hm?

The sparring continued then wordlessly, an unceasing flurry of blows exchanged between them that tested both stamina and resolve. The fatigue of combat was as familiar as breathing, the fast-paced necessity a fine reprieve from the monotony of event planning. The adrenaline urged him to duck and evade, for he struck for the chest in time with Dwalin, knocking them both back.

With a breathless wheeze and an ache in his sternum he looked up blearily, and like a relentless bull Dwalin reared from the ground and charged him. Thorin reached for his weapon but found himself half drug back into the ring, gripped by his ankle. With a broad sweep of his freed leg he was able to kick the other's leg out from beneath him, forcing Dwalin into an awkward kneel his triumph was short-lived, for as they both remained on the ground combat resumed. Wrangled, Dwalin would grip Thorin's left arm and twisted it behind him, forcing it up as he pinned him to the rink.

" _Submit_ ," Dwalin snarled over him, reared up and flush to attempt to force him to concede. He made a simple error, however, in the strength of his brawn against an elbow to the face. The Prince hauled back his free arm and contorted his body for momentum, able to twist out of Dwalin's hold in his momentary disorientation before he was flipping them.

With Dwalin upon his back Thorin seized the opportunity and lunged, his thoughts immediately subverting to subdue him. Catching his wrists he pinned them to the stone overhead, leaving Dwalin to bend his knees as levy them over to try and regain the upper hand. What he hadn't anticipated was that Thorin would follow through with it and use his momentum against him, the pair rolling until Dwalin was once again on his back. Before the larger khuz had time to react, Thorin pinned his thigh down with weight, their bodies slotted as they remained nose to nose.

_"Submit_ ," he growled with primal fervor, his dark hair veiling them as they panted. It took the Prince a moment, however, to recognize that Dwalin no longer fought beneath his clutches, splayed and prone. What became blatantly clear, however, was that in the midst of their rough housing they'd all but ground into a frenzy, and it dawned on him he'd been all but rutting against his shieldbrother to keep him kept below his weight. As he retreated minutely to gather his bearings he glanced down to Dwalin, whose smoky gaze appraised him in mute shock - his pupils blown wide as his tented trouserfront pressed incessantly against the juncture of his hip. Instinct urged his own to roll, but Dwalin’s features firmed.

"Thorin-"

_Oh._

Shock turned to embarrassment, for the discord of want and boundaries had jeopardized the very heartstrings that bound himself to want. "I'm sorry," he replied fervently, and as he relented he found his flesh flushed scarlet, heat venting up from his chest beneath his armor as he scrambled to his feet. Dwalin sat up but did not stand, his hands braced behind himself as he kept watch over Thorin’s bow and retreat. This only seemed to worsen the Prince’s and despite the fervent protest claimed behind him he turned about face and exited. His dread only deepened when he heard no adjoining beyond his own and he kept to the shadow of Erebor’s grand halls, the will to be alone overwhelming as he shed his sparring armament down vacant corridors, keeping on only his codpiece so as to retain what little dignity he had left.

Not that it mattered now, he supposed - he’d gotten his answer, and now he had to live with its consequences.

\--- 

Festivities for the winter solstice commenced with the rising sun, which with it brought clear skies and a most unwelcome surprise.

“What do you mean the other Lords are here,” Thorin snapped as Frerin leaned against the support column. The youngest heir of Thráin smirked against the bit of his pipe, puffing out a generous sigh.

“What does it matter? You didn’t have to greet them at the arse of dawn, Thorin. Though, that did give me plenty of time to admire the handsome entourage they brought with them. Dams, Thorin - I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many in one place before.” Frerin groaned wistfully. “And the lads are strapping as well, brought some of their finest stock I’m supposin’.”

“I don’t give much of a care of what they look like - I want to know why they’re here,” Thorin groused, easing down his ceremonial garb and cynching the tunic at the waist with a broad-band belt. “You’d have at least expected the family to be told, rather than charge on the mountain unannounced-”

“Oh, we were told. Last night, in fact, while someone was off doing Mahal knows what. Brooding, most likely - honestly, my brother, one might think you’re terribly unfestive, given how liken you are to grimacing.” Frerin puffed a smoke ring before blowing out a line of haze, clouding his expression for a moment before he returned to view. His beard was sparse but what he lacked in hair he more than made up for in looks, closest to his father in that regard where Thorin and Dís held true to their mother.

“Oh, don’t give me that look - others went looking for you but you weren’t in.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. Erebor was vast, far beyond the settlements of Men whose borders belied the terrain above. Dwarven architecture was not so beholden to the constraints of weather or incursion, for the primary concern of the Mountain was that of a rumbling earth, easily fortified against and wholly infrequent enough to be paid little mind. Coupled with stonemason safeguards they proved wholly beneficial to attack, and thus the outer limits were rarely patrolled. It was there in a cavern of quartz that he had found himself drawn, for its quiet solace offered him reprieve from the cacophony of last-minute planning and confusion in regard to Dwalin above. Even now the cowardice of fleeing from his shieldbrother haunted him, so unlike him in every regard that the mere thought of it further curdled his disposition. After… tending to himself where none would bother him, he had every intention of returning, but granted the hours of preparation, combat, and poor nights he’d rested longer than he’d anticipated. Lowering his gaze he grit out, “Why weren’t we told until mere hours before they arrived-”

“What does that matter, Thorin? They’re here now, as our guests, whether you like it or not.” While there remained a great discrepancy between the two, Thorin and Frerin were alike in patience - meaning they both owned little.

“It matters for means of courtesy.”

“Dáin arrived and I hardly hear you bemoaning that,” Frerin pointed out.

“Náin and his son were invited. And are kin, at the very least!”

“Must you be so unyielding in everything, Thorin? You do realize that this is a time of celebration - the ushering of Yule, the feasts, the dancing!” Frerin took another lung full, offering the pipe to Thorin who maneuvered around his brother to stalk closer towards the vanity. He rolled his eyes. “You duty-bound dwarves are all work and no pleasure.”

Thorin scoffed - if only he knew. “I’m hardly in the mood for your antics, Frerin. Do get to the point.”

“Antics? Oh, you wound me.” Frerin slung his arm about Thorin’s shoulder and drug him close so that they leveled in the mirror. The younger khuz sighed, and he nudged at the other’s side. “Come on now, Thorin. This year has been difficult on us all, and no one was closer to ugmil’amad than I was-”

“I do believe grandfather would disagree with you on that,” Thorin replied flatly, which earned a snort from Frerin.

“Oh, quiet. I’m here trying to be open with you and you’re caught on semantics. How terribly droll,” he muttered in reply, leaning most of his weight upon his brother who grunted. “Anyhow, like I was saying, we all deserve a bit of reprieve. I for one am not going to overlook the gift grandfather’s offered to us - I heard those dams from the Grey Mountains can cleave an orc’s head clear off their shoulders.” He sighed, his expression one of a muzzy delight.

“Aye, well. Don’t go planting your charge so recklessly, lest one of these days we’ll be tasked with a bastard - or several,” Thorin shot back wryly. The ice of his demeanor fissured, for while he may be dissimilar to his brother’s ostentatiousness it did not mean it did not bring about an easy target for humor, which Frerin often took in stride. Such was this moment, when he had thrown back his head and punched his brother upon the arm hard enough to ache.

“Well, at least that will make one of us, eh? Now, none of that - the feasts await, and then the ball.” Thorin offered his brother a withering look which only broadened the toothy grin that split Frerin’s mien from ear to ear. “Let us hope you step on no further toes, hm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shamukh - Hail  
> Emulhekh - Majesty


	3. Epiphany

Thorin stood upon the precipice of the Great Hall’s throne, as stony in his silence as the dias he remained presented upon. 

Granted Thorin’s absence the evening before, it was swiftly apparent that something had changed in the hours of the previous evening and the morning that Thorin was no longer privy to. His earlier assuaged consideration of the Lords and their entourage proved ill when he alone was excluded from a council among them - left to be tour guide and entertainer to their host of guests.

As Frerin had implied the courts and entourage were of both impeccable breeding and fair countenance, composed mostly of dams though there were lads and khuz amongst them. Their fineries were of a brilliant mastercraft, ranging from laddered earrings to armcuffs spanning the length of brawny biceps - provisions of strength against luxury. Layers of beautifully dyed silks and velvets lay to contrast against fair fur trimmings proving both functional and pleasing to the eye, again showing the prowess of their respective purses. While such things were intrinsic to the lifestyle of their stations Thorin found himself exceedingly unimpressed, for while he was forced into the role and costume those about him seemed to have flaunted it - as if it would garner more favor in him the more they gesticulated with a bejeweled wrist or brought attention to the accessories of their beard the more they stroked it. Eventually he allowed his younger siblings to take the helm once they were in the tailoring district and fell in to line with Dáin, who mimicked a particularly cocky dwarrow and feigned to preen his mane. This, at the very least, incurred a snicker out of him.

His good humor was shortlived, for when they dispersed after lunch to ready themselves for the evening’s dance his finished outfit (per courtesy of a dwarf known to him as Dori) lay strewn for him upon his bed.

And thus there he stood before kin, court and guests feeling like an utter git, for what he wore then was nothing to what had been designed. The winter tunic was ostentatiously designed with flourishing silver against the traditional Durin’s blue, which remained utterly devoid of the pale palette he’d expected to share in with his siblings. He was certain that the weight of the diamonds and sapphires encrusted in the face of his belt would certainly defy its purpose were it not cinched tight enough to be felt with every deep breath, digging into his abdomen. Adorned with silver sabatons and hand jewelry he tried his best to keep still so as not to attract any more eyes than already rested upon himself, turning to stone as he folded his arms across his chest and squared his stance.

The announcement of Thrór was welcomed a short time later with a succession of bows, little of which he acknowledged as he strode towards the summit of the parapet. The regalia of the Mountainking trailed behind him in an opulent train, for his winter mantle lay heavy about his shoulders and offered no doubt to the wealth of its wearer. Durin’s blue complimented the collar of his cape but it was rather the design that caught Thorin’s eye, for he recognized the sewn fineries for what they were - the only gems that had proven to glow brighter than the great chandeliered crystal overhead were those once commissioned. He schooled his shock beneath a mask of indifference though his eyes cut across the throne to his father. Whether Thráin had seen them or had them dismissed Thorin could not say, but the purposeful avoidance of his gaze suggested the truth.

When Thrór raised his hands the musicians on the far side of the room took up their respective instruments, and when the King’s hands fell to rest upon the arms of his throne the festivities commenced.

Thorin’s foul mood for the evening solidified as quickly as the first drag of the musician’s bow coursed along its strings. However, if anyone seemed to notice they certainly didn’t comment, for it was several movements longer until the King, of all people, broke the silence.“Go,” Thrór motioned with a mild wave of his hands, gesticulating towards the gathering foray as the introductory music began to fade. “Go, all of you and enjoy yourselves. Mizimith,” he murmured, and though Thorin hadn’t the will to look upon his grandfather at present, as distressed as he was, he could feel his eyes bore into the side of his face with a fixated obsession. “All of you shall go and make merry with our guests. We will not be known for a lack of hospitality.”

Frerin was the most eager to dismount from his station at the lowest rung of the parapet, offering a blithe bow to the King as he bid his thanks. Thrór paid him as little mind as his youngest grandson did in return, for he was swift to disappear amongst the ranks of elites and take up a drink. Both his father and mother were next, and the physical tension between himself and his grandfather began to build until it was severed with a kindly hooking of his arm.

So intent as he was to ignore the request he had remained oblivious to the creature who remained at his side, for Dís hummed coyly and tugged Thorin down a level to match her own. “Thank you, melhekhel. Mahal looks down upon us with pride under your leadership and strength. Come, Thorin. Let’s go and make merry.”

Thorin’s sharp stare flickered to his sister, who’s gentle expression focused the intensity of her gaze. Hardly in the mood for such games and trickery he merely grunted, bowing his head briefly towards the King before trudging to dismount. Whatever spell of unspoken aggression that forged between them in that moment dissipated, and into the crowds of others he sought ahead.

He knew he was being pursued but he ignored Dís’ insistence. In truth the last place he wanted to be was there to “make merry”, and the purposeful obeisance of those he passed only irked him further. His composure for the night had run its course, for those who saw it fit to curtsy soon found themselves beneath the sharp blade of his discontent. Duty was what made him follow his grandfather’s lead but he was increasingly under the impression that rather than a gesture of good will he alone was meant to be the intended stag amongst springtime does. His suspicions of the farce only seemed to deepen with the inordinate amount of dams in attendance, the majority of them without attendants or company. Some of them could have been together, and he would have been a fool to think that none of them were, but he’d been a Prince all his life and knew a hunt when he saw one.

When he finally broke through the sea of foreign debutantes and again dwelled amongst his own he found himself at the edge of the ballroom, kept from the gaze of the raised perch of the King. As the third movement came to a close he saw that several of the pairs fell away to remain amidst the shore of onlookers, and it wasn’t until the concerto began that he realized the piece - intended for bound couples.

His father stood abreast to his mother as he led her to the helm of the dance floor, every bit a khuz of pride; his amad was a rarity, for both in beauty and brawn she proved amongst the most formidable. Dái smiled gently as she raised her arm to brace it against Thráin’s. The pair circled one another and then it was his father’s turn to lead. The dance shared such honors, for love and marriage were to be of equals, especially from those who’d found their Ones. In privacy his father often relinquished the first lead to his mother, but granted his grandfather’s increasingly… traditional state, this had already seemed planned, for she was not the initial pursuant.

With arms crossed over his barrel chest he grunted. While he didn’t favor dancing he could appreciate it, especially when it was done with passion. Much like art and music, the expression of dance was less of the act but more of the emotions evoked from it. After all, his harp would merely be a skill of the fingers were no sound to be elicited from it and battle a tirelessly empty endeavor were the chance of victory null.

His thoughts drifted to Dwalin; though he’d been actively avoiding his shieldbrother, he found himself scouring the ranks for his presence, the feeling of solitude amongst the masses making him all the more aware of his discontent. He assumed he had likely been stationed at the gates, for even as privately the arrival of the other dwarf Lords had been, having themselves and their respective entourages was something to be mindful of. Then again, being posted as a sentinel amongst their festivities would have been a position easily posted by Fundin if he'd been asked. Had Dwalin been avoiding him, too? Lost in his musings he didn’t notice the creeping presence until she spoke.

“You do know you're allowed to have fun at these gatherings, brother,” Dís mused as she settled alongside him, her prim mouth quirked against the rim of her goblet. Shoulder to shoulder they could have very well been twins, taking the helm of the Durin line in both complexion and resting countenance. 

“And what makes you think contrary,” he inquired distractedly, for it was a surprise to none who knew him well that 

“Your mien, which looks to be on the edge of agony. You could at least play the part and attempt to be interested in what grandfather has put together - it was no easy feat, getting the Lords and their courts here at once without them leaning into bickering chatter.”

“If only I could be assured that their invitation here was so wholly benign,” Thorin groused. He doubted any of this would have been agreeable, but added with the sting of his exit from Dwalin the day before...

“Ah, is that what this is all about,” Dís inquired, her humor heavy as her pale gaze flickered back to their parents. The heavy beat of the drum served as a palpable tempo to all in the room, and indeed several of the intended broke rank and joined in the foray. With a sigh she reposed with a nonchalant, “I told mother you’d see right through the ruse.”

He blinked and stiffened as he sharply lowered his arms. He turned to face her and with gnashed teeth he grit out, “So it is true? You knew and thought it inconsequential to tell me about it?”

“Calm, Thorin. Always quick to temper - being the forgefire in the family is a position keenly taken, thank you.” The dam sniffed contemptuously, setting her empty drink on the tray of a passing attendant with a brusque nod. “What was I to say to her or adad for that matter? Worse yet, ugmil’adad? _Sorry to pit the Lords against one another, my King, for you see Thorin’s preoccupation is already taken with a mountain-sized khuz-_ ”

“Lower your voice,” he seethed. His eyes flickered to see if anyone had overheard, but given their proximity to the band no one appeared capable of hearing her words. When his attention settled back upon her, the plucked nerve angry and raw, he took stock in her wide eyes. There was silence as her expression fissured into utter delight which meant to his lament that he’d let on far too much to be recanted. He stepped away from her with a cloud of foreboding, for he knew at his heels his sister would tread in delight of her discovery. 

“So it’s true, then?”

“We are not discussing this-”

“How very much like you, brother - ever unyielding in your desire to make things as difficult for yourself as possible. I’m certain that your interest has probably gone unchecked, too, as impossible as you are-"

“Dís,” he growled, loud enough for several heads to pique and turn in query just to lower again when caught beneath his winter’s stare. When his attention returned to his sister he grasped her by the high of her arm, steering her brusquely out from the main ballroom and behind one of the grand pillars to cast them into shadow. Wrenching her arm away she reared back to satisfy her retribution for his manhandling, though his expression, even cast in profile, caught her eye. 

“... Thorin, come now. It was merely a jest. There’s no reason to-”

“This is no matter unto which to cause either a scene nor take in blithe stride, Dís,” he said starkly. Most often she would assume this to be another ploy of his theatrics, as privately guarded as he often was. However she stilled her tongue as she watched his broad paw mull over his expression, liken to a laundress over a washboard and a particularly stubborn stain. Her curiosity as to what that sticking point proved to be was just as quickly assuaged as it was posed. “He is my One.”

A beat passed between them and in that moment the gravity of his admission was felt; she needn’t question his certainty, for when a Khuz was not bound by craft or study the resonation of a tethered soul was unmistakable. For some it was immediate, for others the gradual nature of soul pairing was as seamless as the progression of the day. Regardless, such a farce as a convergence of dams vying for a future place at her brother’s side was… Unacceptable. She raised her hand and cuffed her brother on the side of his head, disrupting the sea of black. With a sharp tone he snarled, though before he could spout his recourse she held up a hand.

"You deserved it for not telling me, and worse yet for being a boar, dragging me along like that - the nerve.” Thorin scoffed, itching where her rings had caught his temple as he turned to stalk away. Again she pursued, trailing after his brusque steps as she lulled, “Never the less I have an endless well of compassion for the heart-blind and the stupid-’”

“Compassion!”

“Yes, compassion, you oaf, for I am your sister after all, and the only one among us with more than one gem in the rock tumbler-”

“If this is supposed to engender some sort of-”

“Thorin, I don’t care if you’re the heir apparent or not, if you fucking interrupt me one more time I’ll carve off your stones,” she snapped, and while his look of _Then say something worthwhile_ went narrowly unspoken she continued before he could breathe life into it.

“Oh… Thorin. You look unwell- pale as you are,” she exclaimed, a feigned theatric that had him blinking at her sudden turn about face. Holding the back of her hand to his brow he quickly tried to swat her away, if only to have a returned strike against his forehead as she clucked her tongue. Her mouth betrayed her humor as she announced for a passing sentinel to hear, “Aye, you’re in no condition to continue on like this! Poor timing, granted all the lovelies about-”

“Ma tûmbaz-” He groused beneath his breath, though Dís didn’t seem to take much heed of him.

“Yes, brother. Of course I’ll get you to your quarters, we can’t let any of them see you like this, now can we?”

Thorin looked at her with a withered expression. “Dís, the King-”

“Cannot allow his heir to look weak before all of the Lords, Ladies and nobles now can he,” she posed, motioning him in the direction of the royal chambers. “Or get them ill. No, you’ll certainly need… A day. Two, perhaps - I’ll tell Oín to make a visit. Now off with you before I demand you invoke a public dance with Kóv.”

The hair preener. He grimaced. “Funny,” he groused.

“One of us has to be,” she reposed primly, disappearing into the great room before he could turn and offer his recourse.

\---

Back within his own quarters he ruminated in the sanctity of a crimson high-backed chair settled before the hearth, glad to be one with his own thoughts again. The exhaustion of continual introspection coupled with the pitched demands of duty made him thankful to be rid of his hair clasps, his mane a dark sea of obsidian over his broad shoulders as he sunk deeper into his seat. The jewelry, which may have been a gauntlet for its brackishness, lay abandoned upon the vanity, as with most of his attire save for his white undershirt and the trousers that proved to be most comfortable. 

It was… Strange, to have a confidante in the affairs of the heart. As Durins they felt passionately and dwelled on them deeply, but rarely did they give voice to what often could be settled with words. However Dís has always been a conniving spy when the mood so struck her… And he supposed it was bound to come out somehow. He held no shame in his feelings towards Dwalin, but it was the loss of what intimacy was earned rather than what could be gained that had always been more pressing. As a Prince he was to be as congenial as his temperament allowed to the masses but his trust and loyalty lasted to a scant few, Dwalin king among them in all things… Except this.

His ear perked at a slow beat of knocks upon the door, though he neither responded nor moved. Thorin wasn’t particularly in the mood for company and he equally deduced he’d be of poor sort in return. When silence reigned again he rolled his shoulders and folded his hands about his middle, glancing into the center of the flame as he deliberated on whether or not to go and collect his pipe. When he was finally convinced he stood with a grunt, turning his back to the door as he padded over to the footlocker. Again another knock rang and his mouth twitched disdainfully at the continued insistence, though what shocked him most of all was the audacity of the jostling of his chamber door. Dís, of course, was the first being to mind, followed by Frerin - of whose giddy mood he truly didn’t feel privy to sharing at present - and so it was with harsh word aimed from his lips that he readied his attack, trained and venomous as his pale gaze was thrown over his shoulder.

Words died on his tongue as Dwalin, imposing and mute, stood guard at the threshold of his chamber door. 

The length of silence then was an eternity for Thorin’s sensibilities, though before he could do anything untoward or - forbid - cowardly he collected himself to his full height and raised a brow. “Aye, Master Fundinson. I wasn’t expecting you this evening. What brings you from the festivities?”

“The Princess informed me you were feeling ill,” Dwalin reposed with a shrug, the heavy link of his chainmail clicking mutedly beneath his tunic. "May I come in?"

"No, I think perhaps you look better as a spector by the door," Thorin said flatly, turning away from him with a bemused chuckle before he motioned him forth. Crossing to the liquor chest he pawed for the new spirits his cousin had arrived with; they'd already shared a drink of it the morning before to celebrate his attendance and thus the decanter had just enough left for the two of them. Filling their cups he offered one to Dwalin, whose heavy footsteps had lingered behind him after sealing them in. He bowed his head minutely in thanks, and it was the fine shape of the silver, he'd decided, that allowed their fingers to brush. He staved the itch of their parting by running his fingers along the decorative engravings of the chalice's bowl.

“Plenty’a fine dams about,” Dwalin noted as he leant left to the mantle, his visage caught in the amber miasma of heat and light that cast spectral shadows against the adjacent walls. “Many of them had been hoping to catch a glimpse of the raven prince, so I’m supposin’ it’s just as well that there’s two of ‘em.”

Thorin snickered into the rim of his cup. “Oh, I’m certain Frerin is making merry and proving to be quite the… effective liaison,” was his innocuous reply, chasing the bow of his lips with his tongue as he peered into the emptied silver. With a grunt he reaffixed his attention to Dwalin, only to find his shieldbrother to be paying very little mind to his own drink. It was the flickering of the firelight that cast such a storm in his gaze, he mused. None the less the warmth in his veins pitched at such intensity and he was left with the distinct feeling of being… Appraised. The silence stretched for a beat longer before he sniffed, raising to his feet as he set his empty drink aside. “Besides, I'm… Not one for dancing."

"That is certainly what my brother professed," Dwalin replied with a curious expression. Thorin blanched.

"That bad, hm," he inquired with as much nonchalance as he could muster. Certainly he'd stepped on a few toes but he hadn't been bad enough to warrant Balin's choice words.

"He merely stated that you tended to overthink rather than follow your natural instinct." Dwalin shrugged. "It's all the same to me, personally. Dinnae get the notion'a how dancing pertains to leadin'. A war rally or a victory feast, I can see. But formal dancin' and the like just seems a bit like peacockin’."

"It's supposed to signify one's well-roundedness. The might of one's weapon in war in contrast with levelheadedness and grace in times of…" Thorin trailed off as Dwalin looked at him, unimpressed. The Prince conceded with a roll of his eyes. "Yes, alright. We both know it's just a time to show off-"

"Obviously."

"-and rectify… Courtly matters."

That seemed to throw Dwalin, and his silence persisted. Thorin didn't immediately respond, for his fatigue on the matter had run its course and it was only severed by the broader dwarrow's continued confusion that he felt compelled to clarify.

"Courting matters… Amongst the nobles."

Dwalin adjusted his weight, resting most of it on his left leg as he peered into the reflective pool of his drink. Again nothing was said, though unlike the tenuous silence moments before he found himself thankful for its buffering respite. Neither of them looked at one another, and Thorin found his stare cast into the flames as moments stretched to minutes.

"You're not going to find a wife'n here," Dwalin said at last, though that did little to settle the sudden tumult that churned between the Prince's ribs. If anything the detached nature of Dwalin's tone made it difficult to navigate what precisely he should have said next. Instead he nodded.

"No. Suppose I won't.”

“A husband, then?”

If Thorin had had anything left of his drink he was certain he would have sputtered. While it was commonplace for those carved alike to wed, to hear it come from Dwalin’s mouth… Certainly did something to his sensibilities. “Wife or husband, neither shall turn my head.” Dwalin dropped his gaze with a nod, grunting as he began to raise his drink to his lips. Was that… Doubt? Resignation? Whatever it had been, it was an expression Thorin had never seen before upon his shieldbrother’s face, nor one he wished ever to see again. “But I know with certainty that my One is not among them."

A beat passed, and Dwalin's goblet never made it to his mouth.

"So you know-"

"Yes, I know who they are."

"And you haven't told them?"

"I'm _trying_ to."

"Then what's stopping you?"

"Mahal's beard, Dwalin. What's stopping _you?"_

The force behind his repose shocked even himself, though he was not so cowardly so as to recant. He made a mindless risk, but now that his truth had been spoken he did not find it in himself to relent back into silence on the matter. Decades had been spent as such, with wonder and indecision of the unknown gnawing at his thoughts upon the fealty of the heart and mind. Now that it was spoken… He'd get his answer.

That was, at least, if Dwalin responded.

The khuz in question was always one of few words, but any words at all would have been appreciated. Doubt crept in but it did not take hold, for he'd seen the spark of desire in his best friend's gaze before but never one so devoted as when he'd lain beneath him, and seen him with new eyes.

When he spoke Thorin lifted his head to regard him, though Dwalin had yet to move an inch, as if he were crafted from the same stone his expression had been chiseled from. "Mm, Princeling. With all your courtly training, your fine manner and customs, you still have the subtlety of a hammer against an anvil."

Perhaps it was the tenuousness of his nervous energy, but Thorin found himself letting out a strained snort at the double entendre. "If this is your way of letting me down gently, I'd much rather you do so bluntly."

"Bluntly," he echoed with humor that betrayed his mien. Necking the rest of his drink the broader khuz set his chalice aside upon the mantle and crossed his arms. "Bluntly, aye. I haven't my brother's poetics, nor do I have the patience for it." He stepped closer to Thorin but stopped short of being within an arm's length. "You are my Prince, and one day you shall be my King. In battle I've been at your side, during hunts I've shared in your victories and in your grief I have remained. You are my shieldbrother. However as my station portends and the line of Durin often finding their Ones in other noble houses-" "

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Thorin thought aloud dumbly, though it was only with Dwalin’s nonplussed expression that he realized he'd said anything at all. “I… no, this isn’t about… Ignore what I just said, just that my grandfather-”

“The King?” Dwalin’s tone turned serious. Thorin sighed.

“Yes, the King. He decided to throw this lavish spectacle to peacock-”

“And to get you married.”

“-and to…” He blinked. “Wait, you knew? How is it that everyone bloody knew about this save for me?”

“Because it was obvious, emulhekh,” Dwalin replied chiefly with a shrug. “For what other purpose would he have such a gathering as this? Especially so close to his own loss. He cares for you greatly, murkhûn. And I suppose beyond want of further succession he simply desires for you to be as happy as he’d been.” Thorin offered him an incredulous look, which made him take pity upon him. “Balin had to offer me perspective, when I refused my father’s recommendation to take lead of the operations of security among you. In the event that the moment shared between us the other day during our spar had just been a fleeting desire, combat’s bloodlust…”

The rest required no further explanation. They knew one another through their every fault and indignity, through victory and loss alike, and neither could bear the loss if their suspicions proved faulty. But the shedding of such inhibitions left only regret for how long they’d waited, how many years had been wasted with uncertainty. It was something, however, that both had been eager to put behind them.

“And granted the state you left us both in yesterday,” he said with a slight step forward, allowing his thoughts to go unspoken. Desire sparked and took to his composure like flint to tinder, and with his chin high and his expression wanting he too stepped forth, leaving them chest to chest as he quirked a brow.

“Well, if you don’t, I-”

His kiss tasted of their shared drink, and nothing quite prepared him for just how soft Dwalin’s lips were beneath the muzzle of his beard. Thorin had expected their first kiss to be something fantastical, perhaps a catalyst to a mountain-tumbling epiphany . Yet what settled between his ribs was far from the exotic or the drastic; no, what he felt was something far more precious, for neither nerves nor anticipation could contend with complete and utter peace. Uncertainty was bled dry with the other’s conviction, for the insistence of his mouth against his own lay deepened with broad, calloused fingers working through his hair. Thorin felt Dwalin’s mouth press into a smirk, for he realized belatedly that his fingers had found their way to his hips and reeled them flush. There was no room for hesitation now that there was no need of it, desire 

“You’re wearing far too much,” Thorin said when they’d finally parted for breath, their foreheads pressed together. Their proximity bumped their noses together as Dwalin chuckled quietly in the space between them, and like a starved beast presented with a feast Thorin captured his lips if only to swallow down the noise of easy pleasure. Slotting their mouths together Thorin deepened their kiss, though Dwalin relented with a coy expression.

“Ain’t you got teachers for manners ‘n such, Thorin,” Dwalin questioned with a lewd timbre as his hand lowered to grasp his nape as he pursued forward, backing the Prince deeper into the room. “After all, what’s got you thinkin’ you’ll be leadin’, hm? I didn’t submit the other night, and since you scurried off that means you forfeited any claim otherwise.” Thorin’s pulse raced at the implication though defiance ran deep in his blood, and with it he raised his chin. This coaxed a rumble of want in the taller khuz, who took the mantle of challenger.

And, as per the nature of sparring, the challenger was ultimately first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma tûmbaz - Don't touch me  
> Khuz - Dwarrow (used as a more gender-neutral pronoun)


End file.
